


Again and Again

by saltsanford



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Implied Psychological Manipulation, M/M, referenced sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 20:57:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10395930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltsanford/pseuds/saltsanford
Summary: It’s become almost a tradition, at this point, for Wash and Tucker try to kill each other whenever they come face to face on a mission.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zambo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zambo/gifts).



> IF YOU HAVEN'T READ _[PUT MY GUNS IN THE GROUND](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6734932/chapters/15393220)_ AND HAVE ANY INTEREST IN DOING SO, THERE ARE MAJOR MAJOR SPOILERS IN THIS FIC! this is also probably gonna be super confusing as it's essentially a missing moment directly from that verse, but if you wanna read it anyway go for it! i can clear up anything you're confused about.
> 
> this is a gift for my friend [zambo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Zambo/pseuds/Zambo), as a thank you for helping to run last year's secret santa! (I KNOW IT'S MARCH DON'T LOOK AT ME). one of the things she requested was something else from the alternate reality verse they tried to force into wash's head while he was captive in pmgitg. they tried to run the simulation several times before wash threw it off entirely, so here is one of their attempts. zambo, it's not 100% what you asked for but hopefully you are entertained! i sure was :x THANK YOU FOR BEING A DELIGHT TO THE FANDOM.
> 
> major thanks to my girl [taller](http://archiveofourown.org/users/a_taller_tale/pseuds/a_taller_tale) for coming up with the premise when i was trying to think of a good scenario for this simulation (I AM A SUCKER FOR THIS DAMN TROPE AND THIS GOT PRETTY NONSENSICAL BUT LET'S JUST GO WITH IT OKAY). thank you also to [melissa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MiniMax/pseuds/MiniMax) for the beta, and to all of you, for continuing to be a delight.

It’s become almost a tradition, at this point, for Wash and Tucker try to kill each other whenever they come face to face on a mission.

The first time Wash had run into Tucker on opposite ends of the same supply run, his head had been filled with a lancing pain so intense that he’d had to duck out of the fight and dry heave behind a stack of ammo crates. He’d clutched his rifle to his chest and tried to figure out just what felt so horribly _wrong_ inside of him, but before he could get his thoughts in order, Felix had come around the corner and screamed at him to get the fuck back in the fight, _Jesus Christ, do I have to kill all these sim troopers myself?!_

They hadn’t _actually_ killed any of the sim troopers that day, because Caboose had lit half the armory on fire, and Grif had nearly run Felix over with a construction truck, and then _Carolina_ had shown up and it was game over. Besides, they were _so loud_ , in way that made it nearly impossible to _think_ on missions. It was obnoxious and familiar because _of course_ it was, Wash had spent some time with them back before his life had gone to shit and he’d ended up in prison. That was the _only_ reason that they were familiar. Familiar, and _annoying_ , and causing trouble on nearly every mission Wash was sent on, fucking up his concentration and making him feel weird and shaky in ways that were becoming increasingly hard to explain away.

The sim troopers had become an odd constant, at least, unlike pretty much everything else in his life these days. It was a _given_ that they would be there, screwing up his mission plans. It was _unavoidable_ that Sarge would have at least one corny one-liner. There was _no doubt_ that Caboose would wave at him across the battlefield.

And it was _inevitable_ that he and Tucker would try to kill each other.

It was uncanny, really, and the third time they’d ended up with their guns trained on each other in a fight, Tucker had literally thrown his hands up in the air and said, “ _You_ again? Really?!”

Wash had been so startled that he’d taken his gun off of Wash for a _second_ that he didn’t even shoot. “Don’t lower your weapon,” he’d snapped before he could stop himself. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

_it’s all about depth perception no don’t drop your gun Tucker come here let me fix it there’s no shame in being afraid of the thing that almost killed you—_

By the time he’d gotten his head back on straight, Tucker had raised his gun and come within inches of blowing Wash’s head off. So it went, on every mission. He stabbed Tucker in the shoulder. Tucker shot him in the calf. He nearly drowned Tucker in a lake. Tucker shoved him off a Pelican. On and on and on, the two of them fighting on missions, that weird pressure in Wash’s skull never entirely letting up, tendrils of a half-forgotten dream telling him that something was wrong, wrong, _wrong—_

 _Today_ is no different. There’s an impressive battle raging, on the outskirts of Armonia, the city walls looming high in the distance. Wash has been trying to get a shot off on Tucker with his pistol for what feels like forever, which is proving impossible because Tucker is zipping around with his goddamn sword and crowing loudly every time Wash misses. He’s keeping _score,_ the bastard, and when one of Wash’s bullets fizzles through his sword, he spends the next five minutes bragging about how he’s _an actual Jedi, a real badass motherfucker who can block bullets, did you guys see that? Did you? Did you see me block the—_

“That was a _coincidence_ , Tucker!” one of the other sim troopers— _Simmons—_ yells from above. “You didn’t _actually_ block that bullet with your sword!”

“ _Bullshit_ I didn’t! That was some Darth Vader shit right there—”

Simmons snorts. “Tucker, _please_. If you think you could hold a _candle_ to Darth Vader—”

“Nah, Tucker’s way more like Luke Skywalker.”

Simmons derisive snorting turns to sputtering. “ _Luke Skywalker?!_ Grif! Don’t encourage him!”

“Alright,” comes Carolina’s voice from somewhere off to the side. “That’s enough, boys. We’re here to do a _job,_ remember?”

Her voice is thick with barely contained laughter and Wash feels his face turn hot, stomach twisting. It’s been so long since he’s heard that laugh and it leaves him feeling unexpectedly nostalgic and—

 _Jealous,_ he realizes, in a moment of shocking clarity _. I’m jealous._

He quashes the feeling down as quickly as it came. _Ridiculous._ Whatever friendship he had with Carolina was long over, and as for the sim troopers—he barely knew them. Sure, there had been one moment when he’d watched that Pelican crashing into the snow where he’d thought that maybe, maybe, _maybe—_

But then he’d woken up in the snow, to the UNSC soldiers bending over him. He’d tried to run, broken ribs and all, but it was too late.

His next shot clips off of Tucker’s shoulder guard and Tucker yelps. “Carolina! A little fucking _help_ down here?!”

Three things happen at nearly the same second after that. There’s an agonizing pain in his right thigh, from where Carolina has sunk a throwing knife. He feels more than hears a low rumble in the ground beneath his feet. Tucker mutters, “Oh, _fuck_ —”

Wash and Tucker look at the ground, look up at each other, and then they’re falling, the whole world collapsing around them. He hears several voices yell Tucker’s name as they fall, rocks crumpling around them.

It isn’t a far drop but Wash hits the ground hard, one of the rocks falling around him cracking against his helmet. His vision blacks out, a loud ringing in his ears wiping away all sound. He can’t hear it when the rumbling stops, but he can feel the world still beneath his shoulder blades.

The moment the world stills, he opens his eyes, squinting around him. Tucker is pushing himself to his feet several yards away, swaying slightly. They’re in what seems to be a cave, no more than twelve feet by twelve feet, rocks piled precariously above them and off to the side. There are pinpricks of light shining through the light on the side, suggesting an exit, but Wash can barely think about that now, because his head is ringing and he’s certain he’s going to die.

Wash barely manages to roll over onto his hands and knees and spends several seconds clawing at the seals on his helmet before he wrenches it off. He vomits hard all over the floor of the cave, shoulders trembling, eyes squeezed shut tight. His ears aren’t working properly yet, but he can still make out the sounds of Tucker cursing fluently behind him. “Holy fucking _Christ!_ You’re shitting me, right? Are you for fucking _real_ , man? Did you just throw up in this _tiny ass cave_ we’re stuck in?”

The loss of the familiar weight of Wash’s battle rifle on his back lets him know that Tucker is stripping him of his weapons, and Wash moves automatically to stop him. Bad idea. The world spins as Wash opens his eyes, and he slams them shut again, heaving.

He thinks he passes out for a moment, because the next time he opens his eyes he’s lying on his side, inches away from his own vomit. A voice comes from somewhere behind him, dull and unenthused. “Oh. You’re alive. Fucking great.”

Wash pushes himself to a shaky sit, putting his back to the cave wall as he searches for a weapon. A quick search proves that he has none, and his eyes flick around the small space frantically before landing on Tucker, who has every single one of Wash’s weapons mag-clamped to his suit. He looks a little ridiculous, with both Wash’s weapons and his own, but seeing as how Wash is the one unarmed and defenseless, he supposes he’s in no position to judge.

Tucker is examining the rocks piled at the entrance to the cave, shooting little glances back at Wash as if he’s going to attack him at any moment. Judging from the way his head is throbbing, Wash doesn’t think he’s in a position to attack anyone anytime soon. “Give me my weapons back,” he says, because he has to at least _try,_ and Tucker snorts.

“Uh, yeah. Because that’s _totally_ a thing I’m gonna do.”

Wash squints at him as he turns back to the cave wall, searching the foggy reaches of his memory. He knows this sim trooper, knows his name _well,_ because—

_your name is Wash and mine is Tucker—_

—because although they’ve never spoken to each other outside of a fight, he’s heard the others call his name many times.  “Tucker,” he says finally. “You’re Tucker.”

“Wow. Congrats. We’ve only tried to kill each other like twenty times and you finally know my name. Want a medal?” Tucker does glance at him then, eyes flicking to Wash’s helmet. “You should probably put that back on. This thing could collapse at any moment.”

Wash frowns again, trying to figure out just what it is about Tucker’s words that are so jarring. He reaches slowly for his helmet, turning it over sluggishly in his hands, and it hits him. “Why do you care?”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Tucker groans, head clunking against the rocks. “You sound like we’re in a bad movie.”

“I meant…” Wash tugs the helmet back over his head, resealing it carefully. “I meant, why didn’t you kill me just now? You could have. I would have killed _you._ ”

“Wow,” Tucker deadpans. “You’re really making a case for yourself.”

_“Why?”_

Tucker turns away from the rocks to face him. “ _Because._ Because I wouldn’t kick a man when he’s down. Because it wouldn’t have been a fair fight. Because I’m _better_ than you.”

“Oh,” Wash says, for lack of anything better to say. “You—really?”

“Of course not!” Tucker snaps, throwing up his hands. “I’d put a bullet between your eyes and sleep like a fucking baby tonight if that were an option! However—” he jabs a hand at the rock pile— “getting out of this motherfucker is a two-person job and I’m not trying to die today, dude. You’re gonna get your ass up and you’re gonna help me so that we can get the fuck out of here, and _then_ maybe we can like, have a duel to the death at sunset or some shit. Whatever gets you off.”

 Wash folds his arms across his chest. “So, you’re just going to kill me when we get out of here, then.”

“Probably,” Tucker says absently, as he runs his hands over the rocks. “Either that or one of my annoying friends will.”

“Then _why_ should I _help_ get us out of here?”

“Really? You wanna die of starvation. Trapped in a tiny box. With _me._ Who has all the weapons and can just cut you up and eat your corpse.”

“You wouldn’t _eat my corpse._ ”

“ _That’s_ what you got from—you know, what never mind. Let’s just see if we can move this shit and we’ll come back to it later.”

When Wash doesn’t answer, Tucker casts an agitated look over his shoulder. “Uh, that was an invitation for you to come over here and help me _lift_ this shit? Fucking move it, let’s go!”

After several long seconds of internal debate, Wash is forced to conclude that he’s right. At least if they get out of here he has a _chance_ of survival. Better to die outside then stuck in a box with the mouthiest soldier he’s ever met.

_Tucker’s mouth is everywhere, on his neck his ear his abs his cock, is hot against his own mouth, warm and wet and sighing Wash’s name—_

Wash gives his head a hard shake, face hot, and the room spins at the motion. Tucker’s across the room, but the space that they’re stuck in suddenly feels far too small for two people. He needs to pull it together—he must’ve hit his head harder than he thought—

“Are you coming or what?!”

Wash has no sooner pushed himself to a stand when the shifting of his armor plates causes an agonizing pain to shoot through his right thigh. He stumbles back to the ground with a startled grunt of pain, hand going to the source. He’d completely forgotten about Carolina’s knife sinking into his leg just before the rocks fell, and his hands are trembling so badly that he knocks the knife clean out of his leg, leaving a long, bloody gash behind. “Fuck,” he pants raggedly, pressing his hand into the wound. “Ah, shit.”

Tucker whips around sharply at the sound, gaze traveling to Wash’s leg. “Oh, for fuck’s _sake._ ”

Wash ignores him, groping for his own canister of biofoam. Now that he’s aware of the pain, it’s impossible to ignore. It seems that all of his moving around has ripped open the wound, and he realizes that his current light-headedness isn’t just from hitting his head, but also from the blood loss.

It takes him longer than it should to realize that his canister is empty. He doesn’t even remember when that happened at this point and there’s a large part of him that doesn’t really care. He lets his hand fall back to the ground, leaning against the wall once more.

“You’re out of biofoam? _Seriously?_ ”

“Seems that way,” Wash says. He’s casting around for something that he can use to stop the bleeding. “Looks like I’m not…gonna be able to…help you move those rocks, after all.”

“Oh, come _on!_ ” Tucker protests. “Bullshit! You—you did that on _purpose_.”

“You’re right,” Wash says sarcastically. “I ripped a knife out of my leg on purpose. So that I wouldn’t be able to help you move those rocks. What a clever analysis.”

“You may as _well_ have done it on purpose! Who forgets they have a _knife_ in their leg?”

Wash glances down at where the blood is leaking through his fingers. “My head hurts?” he offers, and when Tucker quiets, he looks at him. “You could always give me your biofoam if you wanted me to help you so badly.”

Tucker rolls his helmet. “Yeah, because _I_ have biofoam.”

“…wait, you don’t have _any?_ At all?”

“Of course I don’t have any! Our supply level is shit because there’s a couple of asshole mercs hoarding it all for themselves!” Tucker pauses. “Probably shouldn’t have told you that, but… _whatever._ Joke’s on you, ‘cause if you didn’t try to _shoot_ me on our last supply run, I would’ve had biofoam that you could now use.”

“I did _not_ try to shoot you on the last supply run!”

“Yes you _did!_ I _know_ your fucking armor, because it’s—” Tucker pauses for the briefest of seconds. “Because it’s the same color as mine. Or, well. The stripes are.”

Wash looks down at his own steel and aqua armor. “It is,” he says in surprise. “Huh. That’s—”

_\--steel and yellow and aqua on the floor—_

“Weird,” he finishes, his voice strangling on the word. “That’s weird.”

Tucker looks up sharply at the tone in his voice, gaze flicking to his leg. “Ugh. You’re losing a _lot_ of blood. _Goddammit!_ ”

“Sorry,” Wash says, voice slurring slightly. “More oxygen in the cave for you, I guess.”

“Very funny, asshole.”

“Your friends will be along,” Wash says. He closes his eyes. “You can tell them you killed me, if that makes for a better story.”

“Dude,” Tucker says reproachfully. “You are not making this any fun _at all.”_

Wash cracks an eye open at that. “Fun?”

“Yeah!” Tucker flaps his arms. “Come on, you’re not even putting up a fight. You’re all, _well, we’re out of biofoam! Guess that’s it, then!_ It’s like you don’t even give a shit if you die down here!”

“Worse ways to go, I suppose.”

“Jesus Christ. Do you—“

_“—practice these lines in a mirror?”_

“Sometimes,” Wash mumbles. “Sometimes I—“

“Hey. _Wash_.” The sound of his name in Tucker’s mouth has Wash snapping his eyes back open, something tugging inexplicably in his chest. Tucker is crouched in front of him at a careful distance. “Wake up, asshole.”

“But I’m dying.”

“Oh, my _God._ You’re not _dying!_ ”

“I _am,_ though.” Wash lifts the hand still holding his empty biofoam canister, then lets it clatter to the ground. “No biofoam. See?”

He giggles then, just a bit, and Tucker groans. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. You’re losing it, aren’t you?”

“Probably.”

Tucker regards him for a moment, then seems to decide something. “We don’t _need_ biofoam, you know.”

“Really.”

“ _Really._ We’ve got everything we need right here.”

It takes Wash a moment to realize that Tucker’s holding out his sword, and even longer to understand why. Wash straightens a little, some of the fog in his head clearing. “You’re not serious.”

“ I am,” Tucker says grimly. “Look, it’ll stop the bleeding—”

“And probably kill me even faster!” Wash eyes the sword, remembering vividly a time that the damn thing had clipped his shoulder. He’d nearly passed out from the pain. “Have you ever even cauterized a wound before?

“Yes, actually,” Tucker says, his voice cooling a little. “One of your people stabbed one of my friends and he was dying, so. I didn’t have much of a choice.”

 _That_ wakes him up. “They’re not my people,” Wash says, the words sharp and fervent. “They’re just…just the people paying me. They’re not my _people._ ”

Tucker looks a little startled at his words, but he merely tilts his head. “You kill for them.”

“I _work_ for them.”

“That what you call it?”

“It is.”

They stare at each other until Tucker breaks his gaze, shaking his head. “Take your leg armor off.”

“Take—what?”

“Your _armor_ ,” Tucker emphasizes. “So I can get to the fucking wound! And rip some of the Kevlar away.”

Wash stares at him, contemplating. Tucker could kill him, but he thinks if that were his intention, he would’ve done it already. His friends are probably going to rectify that as soon as they’re out of here, but at least this way, he has a fighting chance.

He’s rather surprised to find that he still wants that, now that he’s down to the wire— _a fighting chance, an opportunity to survive_ —but against all odds, he does. “Okay,” he mutters. He fumbles with the seals on his thigh guard, blood-slicked fingers slowing down the process. He manages to get it off, then tears ineffectually at the rip in his Kevlar undersuit.

“Ugh, we’re gonna be here all day,” Tucker snaps. He unsheathes a knife—Wash’s own knife, he notes in annoyance—and moves towards him, looking up suspiciously. “Are you gonna like, flip out if I try to do this?”

Wash shakes his head, but he has to clench his hands into fists when Tucker carefully widens the cut in the Kevlar with the knife. “ _Damn,_ that’s deep. We have to get a move on. Take off your helmet.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Tucker says, groping around on the cave floor. “You’re gonna bite on this.”

Wash eyes the stick that he’s holding in alarm. “I don’t know if that’s necessary—”

“It is,” Tucker says grimly. “Trust me.”

When Tucker starts to sigh impatiently, Wash removes his helmet and snatches the stick out of his hand. “Fine. Anything else?”

He means it sarcastically, but Tucker nods. “Yeah. Lay down.”

Wash stares. “What?”

“I need to brace your leg across my lap.”

“What? No!”

“You _have_ to! I gotta keep your leg still myself since we don’t have anyone to hold you down! Jesus _Christ!_ ”

“I can keep myself still.”

“No, you _can’t,_ ” Tucker says. “Trust me. Stop trying to fucking _prove_ something here! This is gonna hurt like a motherfucker and you’re gonna cry like a bitch! Just get over it, lay down, and give me your goddamn leg!”

Wash hesitates, but he’s really, _really_ losing a lot of blood, so in the end he lays down on his back and jams the stick in his mouth, glaring up at the ceiling. He watches Tucker slide towards him, leaning against the cave wall and drawing Wash’s leg across his lap. He throws his own leg across Wash’s waist to keep him there, puts a firm hand on Wash’s shin, and takes a breath.

Wash tries and fails not to flinch as Tucker ignites his sword. “Just do it,” he grits out around the stick between his teeth, and then, and then—

It’s some of the most intense pain he’s ever felt in his life, not quite up there with Epsilon ripping his head to pieces but _far_ worse than any gunshot or knife wound. He jerks hard despite his promise not to, but Tucker is prepared, holding him steady as he touches the plasma sword to Wash’s thigh. Wash is screaming and he can smell his own flesh burning and his skin is on fire, he’s going to _die_ —

When he next opens his eyes, it’s to the sound of falling rock. He tries to sit up too fast and collapses back down to the ground, smacking his head off the ground. “Smooth,” a voice calls, and Wash turns his head more slowly this time to see Tucker carefully removing rocks from the entrance.

Wash glances down at his leg, which has a single gauze bandage over the burn. The bleeding has stopped, but Wash can still feel the worst of the pain through the painkillers his healing unit is pumping out. He lies there for a few moments, contemplating the cave ceiling. “How long was I out?” he finally manages, surprised at how croaky his voice is.

“About thirty minutes.”

“Thirty minutes? _Thirty minutes?_ ”

“Yeah, that’s what I _said,_ ” Tucker snaps. “That’s what happens when you crack your head open, rip a knife out of your leg, almost bleed out and have to let one of your mortal enemies cauterize your fucking wound with his alien laser sword.”

Wash sits up slowly this time, leaning against the cave wall and watching Tucker work. He resists the urge to look at the burn underneath the bandage and focuses instead of breathing and trying to steady his head. After a few minutes, he tries to push himself to a stand using the cave wall, and falls back down with a groan, his leg trembling.

Tucker whirls around. “What the fuck! _Sit your ass down!_ ”

Wash closes his eyes, trying not to pass out again. “I don’t think I’m— _ah_ —going to be able to help with the rocks.”

“Yeah, yeah. I figured _that_ out, idiot.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“Why did I do _what?_ ”

“Cauterize my wound.” Wash cracks an eye open to look at him. “If you knew I wouldn’t be able to help you.”

“Well, I didn’t know that you were gonna be such a little _bitch_ about it, did I?”

Wash tries to let it drop, but he can’t. “Yes, you did. You cauterized someone else’s wound before, didn’t you? So you knew how painful it—“

Tucker whirls around to face him. “What do you fucking _want_ from me?”

Wash blinks. “What?”

“I said, what do you want from me? I didn’t kill you. I fixed your stupid leg. Can you like, quiet the fuck down and not push your luck?”

“I just…” Wash shakes his head. “I don’t understand you. I don’t understand _any_ of you.”

“Yeah, well,” Tucker turns back to the rock pile. “I don’t get _you,_ either.”

“What do—”

“Caboose wanted to keep you, you know.”

He frowns. “ _Keep_ me?”

“After Sidewinder,” Tucker says impatiently, and everything in Wash goes utterly still. “He kept fucking asking me that. _Can we keep him? Can we keep him?_ He wanted to bring you with us.”

Wash says nothing, hardly daring to breathe, head pounding with more than just residual pain from his injury. He pushes it down, tries to focus on what Tucker’s saying because he knows, somehow, that it’s important.

“Fuck if I know _why,”_ Tucker continues after a moment. “You made everyone’s lives a living hell, got Church stuck in that stupid memory unit, and killed one of our friends. Or, well. _Tried_ to killed. You _meant_ to. But Caboose wanted to keep you, like you were a stray puppy or some shit.”

“Caboose…gets attached to people,” Wash mutters.

“Caboose is an idiot,” Tucker says, his voice turning fierce, “and _don’t_ fucking talk about him like you know him.”

“I wasn’t—“

“Sarge said we should bring you with us, as well. I told him it wasn’t any of his fucking business, seeing as how he’s a Red and he wouldn’t have to deal with your ass, but. He said Freelancer was fucked for all of us and that you deserved a _second chance_.”

Tucker says the last two words mockingly, letting out a bitter laugh before continuing. “Grif and Simmons, though. They were totally cool with leaving your ass there and letting the Feds sort it out. Doc didn’t _get_ a goddamn vote since he isn’t a Red _or_ a Blue, but he agreed with Sarge.”

Wash’s head is reeling, trying to process that information, that three of them, _three,_ wanted to give him a second chance. It’s unthinkable, and he almost misses Tucker’s next words.

“I was the deciding vote.”

Wash looks at him, but Tucker’s still angrily yanking rocks away from the wall. “I voted no. In case that wasn’t clear.”

“It was clear.”

“Hey, _fuck_ you,” Tucker says, dropping the rock he’s hauled away with unnecessary force. “You don’t get to—I didn’t owe you _shit._ I didn’t even _know_ you.

“I know that—”

“So you don’t get to _sit_ there and like, give me fucking _puppy_ eyes—”

Wash’s mouth falls open. “I am _not_ giving you puppy eyes!”

“Look, I know puppy dog eyes, okay? _Caboose_ is on my team, for fuck’s sake. And _you_ are pulling out all the goddamn stops.”

“That’s ridiculous—”

“It’s not gonna work. Because I don’t regret my decision. I don’t feel _bad_ for you.”

“Okay.”

“I _don’t!_ ”

_“Okay!”_

Tucker snorts, heaving another rock away and after a moment, Wash speaks. “You still didn’t answer my question.”

“What question?!”

“Why am I still alive?”

Tucker stills, his shoulders tensing. For a moment, Wash thinks he isn’t going to speak, and then—

“Yes, I did answer your fucking question. You just weren’t paying attention.”

They’re silent for nearly ten minutes after that, while Tucker moves the rocks and Wash tries to get some sort of radio signal on his helmet. It must have been damaged in the fall, because he isn’t getting any sort of connection. He takes it off and is fiddling with the wires when Tucker straightens, a hand going to his own helmet.

“Do you have a signal?” Wash asks. “Is anyone out there? Are—”

Tucker waves a hand at him to be quiet, and Wash waits impatiently while he speaks over the radio. To his surprise, when Tucker drops his hand he walks away from the rock pile, coming to sit against the wall across from Wash. “Nothing else to do for now. They’re gonna clear out the rest on their end.” He reaches up towards his helmet to pop the seals, and Wash’s heart leaps into his throat. “What are you doing?!”

Tucker pauses. “Taking my fucking helmet off, it’s hot as shit in here!”

“But—”

Tucker ignores him, pointedly removing his helmet. A pile of shoulder-length dreads tumble free, framing a dark-skinned face with high cheekbones and big brown eyes that remind Wash of polished wood and—

_—your name is Agent Washington and mine is Lavernius Tucker you’re okay I’ve got you I’ve got you’ve I’ve got you I’ve—_

“Yeah. I get that a lot.”

Wash jolts, giving his head a hard shake. “Get—what?”

Tucker wipes the back of his wrist along his sweating brow and gestures towards Wash. “Get like, that reaction. Because, you know.” He gestures at himself now. “I’m hot.”

Wash sputters. “You— _what?!”_

“Dude, I can see you checking me out.”

“I am not checking you out!”

Tucker grins, and it makes something clench in Wash’s stomach. “Then why are you blushing?”

Wash has completely forgotten that he’d taken his helmet off, and after a moment of internal debate decides that putting it back on would only make things worse. “I’m just…I’ve never seen your face, before.”

“Little harder to kill someone when you know how fine they look behind their armor, isn’t it?”

Wash huffs, but he can’t stop himself from grinning a little. Tucker grins too, for just a moment, before extending his leg across the aisle to kick at Wash. “I answered your question, so now you gotta answer mine.”

“Okay, you didn’t _actually_ answer my question—”

“Why do you work for them?”

Wash falls silent, and Tucker fidgets across from him. “I mean, you know what they’re fucking doing on this planet. How do you like _, justify_ that to yourself? How do you sleep at night?”

 _I don’t,_ Wash doesn’t say. “I don’t have to explain myself to you,” he says instead.

Tucker doesn’t even answer him, just continues to stare at Wash expectantly, so he sighs. “It’s not about their _cause_ —”

“Then what _is_ it about?”

“Do you want to hear my answer or not?” Wash snaps. “I was on that prison ship for three years. _Three years._ They showed up and told me that if I worked for them, I could have my freedom. It was a no-brainer.”

“So that’s like, all you care about? Your freedom?”

“I don’t have anything else _to_ care about.”

“Uh, how about like _, doing the right thing?_ Not killing a bunch of innocent teenagers?”

Wash flushes. “I—”

“So, great,” Tucker continues loudly, “you’ve got your freedom. How’s that feel?”

It’s as if the cave floor has dropped out from underneath him. “I...this isn’t…after this is over, I’ll—”

Tucker laughs. “What, you think the mercs are just gonna like, let you _go?_ Bullshit. You’re gonna be stuck working for them _forever_ , you know that, right? A former _Freelancer_ —they’re never gonna let you leave, _never_ —”

_“SHUT UP!”_

The anger surges up in him, quick and hot, and Wash shoves back against the wall as if he can push away from Tucker. “That’s not—shut up, just shut _up!_ You don’t know what you’re talking about, just _shut up_ —”

“Why?” Tucker challenges, sitting up a little straight. “Why, huh? It’s ‘cause you know I’m _right_ , isn’t it?”

Wash takes strength from the anger and uses the wall to help climb to a stand, his bad leg trembling underneath him. “Shut up,” he pants, swaying with the effort. “Shut up, shut up, _shut up_ —”

Wash starts determinedly towards the rock pile, one hand braced against the cave wall. Tucker stands as well, tracking him. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Getting… _out_ of here…” he pants. He paws at one of the rocks until it comes loose. “Don’t…wanna be in here…with _you_ …”

“Oh-ho, _I_ see,” Tucker says hotly. “You’re all fucking pissy because you know I’m right, so you’re gonna fuck up the leg that _I just fixed_ trying to get out of here? Geez, you sure know how to use your _brains_ —”

“Shut up! Just stop talking, shut up, _shutupshutup_ —”

Wash spins towards him, to shove him or hit him or something, but the sudden movement is too much for his leg and it gives out beneath him. He collapses forward with a cry, hands coming forward to catch himself against the ground—

But instead of hitting the cave floor, he crashes against Tucker instead, who has moved forward to meet him. “You’re so fucking _stupid,_ ” Tucker hisses in his ear. He’s so close that Wash can feel Tucker’s breath on his neck and he gasps, trying to pull back, but Tucker’s arms are locked around his waist. “So— _stupid_ …you’re gonna _hurt_ yourself…”

 _He’s skittered backwards against the wall, chest heaving with giant breaths. There’s someone in front of him, reaching out slowly but deliberately. Not hesitating to touch him. Not_ afraid _to touch him. There are steady hands on either side of his face and Wash clutches at them as if he’s drowning. “Hey, hey. Look at me. What’s my name?”_

 _Wash knows this he knows this, but he can’t quite—he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to remember but there’s a voice calling him back. “No no,_ look _at me. Come on, you know my name.”_

 _He does. He knows this face, these hands, this name, it’s— “Tucker,” he croaks, voice weak and parched but sure, sure of_ this _, if nothing else. “Tucker.”_

When his head finally clears again, he realizes he’s leaning heavily into Tucker, arms locked around his neck, face pressed uncomfortably against Tucker’s shoulder guard, the instinct that something is _wrong_ pounding clearer than ever. Tucker’s hands on his face in the dark still burns behind his eyelids, and Wash swallows hard. “Tucker,” he gasps, “I— _wait_ —I think—”

A blinding light fills the cave, and Wash lifts a hand automatically. “Fucking _finally,”_ Tucker mutters, still in his ear, as even more light floods the cave. “Took them long enough.”

“ _Tucker!_ Are you alright?”

Wash jerks away from Tucker at the sound of Carolina’s voice, and Tucker leans him up against the cave wall. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. So’s the merc.”

There’s a pause, and Carolina’s voice comes again, more cautiously. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” Tucker says, sighing. “He doesn’t have like, a gun to my head or anything. I got his weapons. Just clear the way and get us out of here, will you?”

He retrieves their helmets and Wash’s thigh guard, and Wash snaps both on, trying not to cry out at the pressure that the armor puts against his wound. The moment that there’s a large enough hole for them to exit through, Tucker grabs Wash’s arm, slings it over his shoulders, and starts pulling both of them towards the exit.

Wash jerks, startled. “What—you don’t—”

“Shut up,” Tucker says, sounding utterly exhausted. “Just—shut up.”

Wash quiets, gripping Tucker’s shoulder and allowing him to lead them up the steep, rocky slope they’ve created towards the sun. Wash’s leg is throbbing by the time they emerge, barely able to take in the sim troopers surrounding them against his swimming vision. “Oh, _Tucker_ ,” one of them groans in exasperation. “ _Really?_ ”

“Shut up, Grif,” Tucker snaps. Wash’s arm is still around his shoulder, and Wash realizes just how much of his weight Tucker is taking. He tries to pull back a little, but his leg is shaking too badly and he collapses back against Tucker.

“Why,” Simmons asks in despair, “is he still _alive?!”_

“Because!” Caboose says enthusiastically, bounding to stand in front of Wash and Tucker. “Because we’re going to keep him this time!”

There’s a collective groan from the group, but Wash catches sight of Carolina in his peripheral. She has her helmet tilted in a way that’s achingly familiar, arms folded across her chest as she watches him. “Tucker,” Wash mutters in an undertone. “I—need to go.”

“Go _where?”_ Tucker asks grudgingly. He still hasn’t loosened his grip. “You’re just gonna like, crawl back to your fucking Death Star merc base or whatever?”

“The Death Star is in space, _Tucker_ ,” Simmons says, “he can’t crawl there—”

“Yeah, I know, that’s my point _,_ _Simmons_ —”

“Why do we care, exactly?” Grif asks. He already sounds thoroughly bored with the conversation, but hasn’t lowered his weapon from where it’s trained on Wash.

“We don’t!” Tucker snaps. “I’m just _saying!_ He’s probably going to die if we leave him here—”

“So?!”

“So we could take him for like, information! Fuck! I don’t know!”

“Gruf,” Caboose says plaintively, “he could be a new best friend.”

“I don’t want him to be a new best friend! I want to put a bullet through his skull like Tucker should’ve done down there!”

“I needed him to help me move the fucking rocks!”

“Yeah, looks like he was _super_ helpful—”

Wash closes his eyes, listening to their bickering. It’s annoying, of course, but there’s something almost _soothing_ about it as well, something that feels…

_That feels…_

“Agent _Washington!_ ”

Wash snaps his head up at once and sees Felix and Locus melting through the trees about fifty yards away. The sim troopers and Carolina train their guns on them at once. “Ah, shit,” Tucker mutters.

“Well well well,” Felix calls. “Looks like he’s alive after all, Locus. And you were all _worried._ ”

Locus ignores him. “Agent Washington. We are on a schedule.”

Wash swallows hard, pulling himself away from Tucker slowly. For a brief moment, he thinks he feels Tucker’s arm tighten around his waist before he lets it fall. It takes every ounce of strength he possesses, but Wash is able to remain standing. Once he’s certain he has his bearings, he begins to make his way to Felix and Locus until Tucker’s voice stops him.

“You don’t—“

Tucker stops speaking abruptly, but Wash can hear the unspoken end of his sentence: _you don’t have to go with them._

“Yeah,” Wash says awkwardly, and he turns away. “I do.”

The walk across the battlefield is a long one, and when he reaches Felix and Locus, he has to lean up against a tree, panting heavily. “Let’s go,” Felix snaps at him, and Wash limps along behind them.

He spares one final glance at the sim troopers as they enter the Pelican. Tucker is watching him, fists clenched at his sides, and almost against his will, he takes one tiny step towards them.

For some reason, that’s what does it: that tiny, unconscious move that Tucker makes. It jars something loose in Wash’s memory, and he stops abruptly, frozen on the ramp of the Pelican

“Washington,” Felix says impatiently. “We don’t have all—“

“This isn’t right,” Wash says out loud, frowning at him. “This…this isn’t…”

He turns back to Tucker, to Caboose and Carolina, to the Reds, and after a moment of hesitation, he takes a step towards them.

_\--and that way includes taking time to spray paint the killer Freelancer’s armor yellow jesus christ you need a haircut you know my name then I like sleeping with you you’re not broken and you do deserve to be played with I mean we are friends I mean we are friends I mean we are friends imeanwearefriends—_

“This isn’t right.”

The world crumbles—

Turns to dust—

 

 

 

 

_“Are you fucking kidding me?”_

_“What? What?”_

_“He’s waking up!”_

_“Again?!”_

 

 

 

 

Again and again and again and again—

The world crumbles, turns to dust, and goes black before his eyes once more.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
